And indeed there will be time 4/???
Well, it's only been... three months. Oops. I apologise for this huge delay, but stuff got in the way and though I wrote some of this ages ago I couldn't bring myself to post anything. No, that's not an excuse. Feel free to throw rotten tomatoes at me.
I know exactly where I'm going with this now - there are two or three chapters left, one of which at least will be written in 3rd person. As you are about to discover, the whole thing is still gloomy to the point of wangst, but after much consideration I don't think it feels gratuitous (at least I hope it doesn't!). Please refer to the footnotes, as I've attempted to justify my head!canon... XD
I'll shut up for now and let you get on with it in the hope that you enjoy this new development. Please don't hesitate to point out any typos or other goofs on my part.
Title: And indeed there will be time (4/???)
Author: Nemo (
nemo_neminem)
Pairing: Hastings/Dulcie Hastings; Hastings/Poirot
Rating: PG
Categories: Angst, slash, h/c
Warnings: Angstity angsty angst. Unpleasant Poirot. Gratuitous French poetry.
Disclaimer: I am a liar. I own these characters. One of those two facts isn't true.
Summary: Hastings hasn't been quite honest about the reasons behind his trip to England.
(And since it's been ages, here are part 1, part 2 and part 3.)
Within a few more days of hassle and luggage misplacement, I was back in the familiar surroundings. My room had undergone a verdant transformation; bronzy-green papers covered the walls, whilst my old Chinese looking-glass had been replaced by a richly-gilt oval one, carved in the quaintest manner imaginable. I was rather disappointed to find that, during my absence, several other treasured objects of mine had mysteriously disappeared - insignificant souvenirs from past voyages, including the stuffed crocodile I had presented Poirot on a previous trip back to the motherland. [1]
Unreservedly thankful for the warm welcome and hospitality that had been extended to me after years of separation, I decided to pay little heed to the subtle changes of decor around me. But something else had changed - something less tangible yet somehow deeply personal. Temporarily unable to engage in active assistance to my friend, I was left to reflect, day after day, upon the same questions.
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,Where they are gone, nor yet this year,Save with this much for an overword,--But where are the snows of yester-year? [2]By an unfortunate trick of fate, Poirot had found himself engaged in a complex business which monopolised his attention from morning till night. The added stress of unfamiliar legwork soon began to take its toll on the detective's naturally irritable temper; he left at dawn and returned at dusk, enquired briefly of my well-being, smiled faintly, excused himself and retired to his room in the sole company of a pot of tisane. My days were idled away on newspapers, sentimental novels and social obligations; but each new visit disclosed additional nostalgia and bittersweet disillusionment.
On the tenth evening since my arrival, I decided to bring the masquerade to an end. Having rehearsed a well-rounded speech in my head, I sat upright on the edge of the couch and waited, lost in thought. How long I sat thinking I do not know, but I must have dozed off, for I awoke at last with a start to find myself wrapped in an afghan. The curtains were drawn and the lights in the room had all been turned out; cursing myself for my weakness, I shoved away the blanket and stood for a moment in dreadful hesitation. Then, with my heart beating slightly faster, I crossed the corridor and rapped on the door of Poirot's room.
I was greeted with a swarm of muffled curses, which, though I could not make much sense out of them, stung me like wasps. Presently the door swung open with a dramatic hiss, and Poirot appeared, arms crossed over a crimson silk dressing-gown. I braced myself, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I stood speechless, planted before the formidable little man.
For an instant, Poirot studied me with intense weariness before frowning dispassionately.
"Yes, Hastings? What brings you to see me at this unreasonable hour? You should be resting." His manner to me was a shade patronising; I frowned slightly and murmured something about being unable to sleep.
"Then you should save sleeping for the night-time. Enfin! Such is the purpose of beds!"
"I didn't mean to... I was waiting for... Look, Poirot, couldn't you let me in?" The words snapped out of me, ripe with exasperation. Poirot winced.
"Hastings, I am tired and I have work to do. Surely what you wished to say to me can wait jusqu'à demain matin." With that the little detective turned on his heel.
As he made to close the door on me, I put out my foot to stop it and pushed the door open forcefully; Poirot sprang backwards then froze on the spot.
"What is this?" he finally hissed, staring at me with a mix of disbelief and outrage. "Are you feeling..."
I interrupted him, overwhelmed with vexation. "My head is clear enough, thank you. Damn it, Poirot, is that all you'll ever find to say? I'm not an invalid - if you'd tolerate my presence, I might be of assistance!"
Poirot raised a pacifying hand. "Calmez-vous, mon ami. Your nerves have been frayed by the fever, the hallucinations; you need..."
"... rest!" I completed in a tone of voice far louder than was necessary. "My little grey cells don't need any added strain, do they? Besides, what bloody use would I be when I can't even trust my eyes? Unless I saw clear in your... ways. Oh, yes. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Well, I solved my own little case. The Affair of the Vanishing Souvenirs." I was trembling, but my voice was firm and icy.
Poirot took a few cautious steps forward with a pained expression on his face. "My dear Hastings, you..."
"Don't you dare touch me," I growled, shrinking back as a plump hand stretched out to hover over my shoulder. "Why should you need an old dog bumping his head against your heels?" [3]
"Assez!" finally thundered the detective, who seemed to inflate himself even further. "Such... gibberish is unworthy of you, Hastings. It is with infinite pleasure that I looked forward to the felicity of seeing you again, but married life finds you bitter and mired in petty sentimentalism. I arranged for the reunion with your Cinderella, and here is the fruit of my work! The little acrobat turned the prince into an irritable old frog!" [4]
I staggered as if I had been shot and turned on my heel, livid with wrath and disappointment. As I rushed out of the flat I was aware of Poirot's voice calling me back, but I ignored his imperious cries and walked out aimlessly into the night.
--------------------
Enfin! = For heaven's sake!
jusqu'à demain matin = until tomorrow morning
Calmez-vous, mon ami = Calm yourself, my friend
Assez! = Enough!
[1] Obvious reference to the ABC Murders episode from the TV series :D
[2] These few lines come from a 15th century poem by François Villon, "La Ballade des dames du temps jadis" - "The Ballad of the Dead Ladies". I am using the famous English translation by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the version which Hastings would be most likely to have read.
[3] At the end of the 5th chapter of Curtain, Poirot says "Have I not here my faithful dog to protect me also? My excellent and loyal Hastings!" Of course, chronologically speaking this scene would take place after my story, and Poirot doesn't mean this in a bad way, but the metaphor has always struck me as rather unfortunate.
[4] In Murder on the Links, Hastings extends the metaphor of a fairy tale in the account of his love story with Dulcie Duvee. Moreover, in Chapter 26 (the one where Hastings gets this sort of confession letter from Dulcie), there's a particularly interesting scene in which Poirot explains the whole Duvee twin mystery to a completely baffled Hastings. The dialogue goes like so:
'Why didn't you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?'
'You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,' said Poirot dryly. 'You did not give me a
chance.'
'But afterwards?'
'Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in me. And then, I wanted to see
whether your-feelings would stand the test of time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan,
with you. I should not have left you long in your error.'
I have a little theory of my own to account for Poirot's behaviour in this passage, but I'm not going to dwell on it right now because that would sort of spoil the fun.
I know exactly where I'm going with this now - there are two or three chapters left, one of which at least will be written in 3rd person. As you are about to discover, the whole thing is still gloomy to the point of wangst, but after much consideration I don't think it feels gratuitous (at least I hope it doesn't!). Please refer to the footnotes, as I've attempted to justify my head!canon... XD
I'll shut up for now and let you get on with it in the hope that you enjoy this new development. Please don't hesitate to point out any typos or other goofs on my part.
Title: And indeed there will be time (4/???)
Author: Nemo (
nemo_neminem)
Pairing: Hastings/Dulcie Hastings; Hastings/Poirot
Rating: PG
Categories: Angst, slash, h/c
Warnings: Angstity angsty angst. Unpleasant Poirot. Gratuitous French poetry.
Disclaimer: I am a liar. I own these characters. One of those two facts isn't true.
Summary: Hastings hasn't been quite honest about the reasons behind his trip to England.
(And since it's been ages, here are part 1, part 2 and part 3.)
Within a few more days of hassle and luggage misplacement, I was back in the familiar surroundings. My room had undergone a verdant transformation; bronzy-green papers covered the walls, whilst my old Chinese looking-glass had been replaced by a richly-gilt oval one, carved in the quaintest manner imaginable. I was rather disappointed to find that, during my absence, several other treasured objects of mine had mysteriously disappeared - insignificant souvenirs from past voyages, including the stuffed crocodile I had presented Poirot on a previous trip back to the motherland. [1]
Unreservedly thankful for the warm welcome and hospitality that had been extended to me after years of separation, I decided to pay little heed to the subtle changes of decor around me. But something else had changed - something less tangible yet somehow deeply personal. Temporarily unable to engage in active assistance to my friend, I was left to reflect, day after day, upon the same questions.
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,Where they are gone, nor yet this year,Save with this much for an overword,--But where are the snows of yester-year? [2]By an unfortunate trick of fate, Poirot had found himself engaged in a complex business which monopolised his attention from morning till night. The added stress of unfamiliar legwork soon began to take its toll on the detective's naturally irritable temper; he left at dawn and returned at dusk, enquired briefly of my well-being, smiled faintly, excused himself and retired to his room in the sole company of a pot of tisane. My days were idled away on newspapers, sentimental novels and social obligations; but each new visit disclosed additional nostalgia and bittersweet disillusionment.
On the tenth evening since my arrival, I decided to bring the masquerade to an end. Having rehearsed a well-rounded speech in my head, I sat upright on the edge of the couch and waited, lost in thought. How long I sat thinking I do not know, but I must have dozed off, for I awoke at last with a start to find myself wrapped in an afghan. The curtains were drawn and the lights in the room had all been turned out; cursing myself for my weakness, I shoved away the blanket and stood for a moment in dreadful hesitation. Then, with my heart beating slightly faster, I crossed the corridor and rapped on the door of Poirot's room.
I was greeted with a swarm of muffled curses, which, though I could not make much sense out of them, stung me like wasps. Presently the door swung open with a dramatic hiss, and Poirot appeared, arms crossed over a crimson silk dressing-gown. I braced myself, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; I stood speechless, planted before the formidable little man.
For an instant, Poirot studied me with intense weariness before frowning dispassionately.
"Yes, Hastings? What brings you to see me at this unreasonable hour? You should be resting." His manner to me was a shade patronising; I frowned slightly and murmured something about being unable to sleep.
"Then you should save sleeping for the night-time. Enfin! Such is the purpose of beds!"
"I didn't mean to... I was waiting for... Look, Poirot, couldn't you let me in?" The words snapped out of me, ripe with exasperation. Poirot winced.
"Hastings, I am tired and I have work to do. Surely what you wished to say to me can wait jusqu'à demain matin." With that the little detective turned on his heel.
As he made to close the door on me, I put out my foot to stop it and pushed the door open forcefully; Poirot sprang backwards then froze on the spot.
"What is this?" he finally hissed, staring at me with a mix of disbelief and outrage. "Are you feeling..."
I interrupted him, overwhelmed with vexation. "My head is clear enough, thank you. Damn it, Poirot, is that all you'll ever find to say? I'm not an invalid - if you'd tolerate my presence, I might be of assistance!"
Poirot raised a pacifying hand. "Calmez-vous, mon ami. Your nerves have been frayed by the fever, the hallucinations; you need..."
"... rest!" I completed in a tone of voice far louder than was necessary. "My little grey cells don't need any added strain, do they? Besides, what bloody use would I be when I can't even trust my eyes? Unless I saw clear in your... ways. Oh, yes. Did you think I wouldn't notice? Well, I solved my own little case. The Affair of the Vanishing Souvenirs." I was trembling, but my voice was firm and icy.
Poirot took a few cautious steps forward with a pained expression on his face. "My dear Hastings, you..."
"Don't you dare touch me," I growled, shrinking back as a plump hand stretched out to hover over my shoulder. "Why should you need an old dog bumping his head against your heels?" [3]
"Assez!" finally thundered the detective, who seemed to inflate himself even further. "Such... gibberish is unworthy of you, Hastings. It is with infinite pleasure that I looked forward to the felicity of seeing you again, but married life finds you bitter and mired in petty sentimentalism. I arranged for the reunion with your Cinderella, and here is the fruit of my work! The little acrobat turned the prince into an irritable old frog!" [4]
I staggered as if I had been shot and turned on my heel, livid with wrath and disappointment. As I rushed out of the flat I was aware of Poirot's voice calling me back, but I ignored his imperious cries and walked out aimlessly into the night.
--------------------
Enfin! = For heaven's sake!
jusqu'à demain matin = until tomorrow morning
Calmez-vous, mon ami = Calm yourself, my friend
Assez! = Enough!
[1] Obvious reference to the ABC Murders episode from the TV series :D
[2] These few lines come from a 15th century poem by François Villon, "La Ballade des dames du temps jadis" - "The Ballad of the Dead Ladies". I am using the famous English translation by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the version which Hastings would be most likely to have read.
[3] At the end of the 5th chapter of Curtain, Poirot says "Have I not here my faithful dog to protect me also? My excellent and loyal Hastings!" Of course, chronologically speaking this scene would take place after my story, and Poirot doesn't mean this in a bad way, but the metaphor has always struck me as rather unfortunate.
[4] In Murder on the Links, Hastings extends the metaphor of a fairy tale in the account of his love story with Dulcie Duvee. Moreover, in Chapter 26 (the one where Hastings gets this sort of confession letter from Dulcie), there's a particularly interesting scene in which Poirot explains the whole Duvee twin mystery to a completely baffled Hastings. The dialogue goes like so:
'Why didn't you tell me that night at the hotel in Coventry?'
'You were rather high-handed in your methods, mon ami,' said Poirot dryly. 'You did not give me a
chance.'
'But afterwards?'
'Ah, afterwards! Well, to begin with, I was hurt at your want of faith in me. And then, I wanted to see
whether your-feelings would stand the test of time. In fact, whether it was love, or a flash in the pan,
with you. I should not have left you long in your error.'
I have a little theory of my own to account for Poirot's behaviour in this passage, but I'm not going to dwell on it right now because that would sort of spoil the fun.